


the latest firmware

by qthulhu



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Coping, Irondad, Parent Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), The Grieving Process, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:42:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthulhu/pseuds/qthulhu
Summary: Because Peter's a coward, he's left the fresh Anthony Stark AI 3.1.1 unused for an entire week. Every boot up, Karen asks if he'd like to switch out and he ends up rambling about how much he appreciates everything she does for him and apologizing for ever giving the impression that he's ungrateful at like the worst possible moment. It's embarrassing.--Sometimes ghosts can help move us on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oomf asked for an ai tony fic,, i cant say no,,

“So it’s Mister Stark?”

“I mean, it’s not. It’s a snapshot of his consciousness from, uhh, 2018, I think? We stopped development a little before things went to shit.”

“If you stopped development, how did he get finished?”

“I never said _I_ stopped,” she knocks his shoulder lightly. “I’m no quitter, Pete. The first - well, second, I guess - prototype was a total fluke. Some failsafe he put into one of the suits made an AI, made a mess, and blew up. I reverse-engineered 28’s code with a couple mods, and Tony 3.0 was born.”

“All by yourself?”

“You missed a lot in five years, dude.”

The ghostly silhouette absorbs its surroundings, hovering over the half-empty bottles of Sprite and notebooks brimming with furious scrawl, with his hand rubbing his chin. He can’t feel or smell or breathe, but he can convey amused disgust at the state of his room. The massive whiteboard - pulled from the trash after the chem department remodelled - draws most of his attention. Namely, an experimental web formula Peter’s been working on for weeks. Tony nods as he reads and makes a couple judgey faces (Peter is _definitely_ going to need to ask about that later).

“It acts like him.”

“Yeah,” Riri preens. “Wait till he’s ranting about the condition of mankind at four in the morning and crying about how much he misses cholesterol.”

“ **I’m right here. I can hear you** ,” Tony says. Peter can’t help it; the second he hears the distorted voice, he smiles. “ **Don’t act like you don’t love our conversations, Williams.** ”

“Not that this isn’t the coolest thing ever, but why did you bring him here?”

“ **Figured you could use an upgrade, Underoos.** ”

 

\----

 

 _Think of it like babysitting, she said. It’ll be fun, she said_ , Peter thinks. He tosses another Coke in a black plastic bag. It’s not like he could just leave it there with the digital ghost of his mentor sighing disapprovingly behind his back. It’s fine. Really. He loves it. He does. They’re not doing much talking, but Tony keeps inspecting every little thing like it’s his first time there (which it’s not, nothing’s different aside from the new board), and his presence alone is comforting. Besides, Riri’s gonna be back in a couple hours with his new suit to relieve him.

“ **So what was wrong with the old juice?** ”

“It -” Spit catches in his throat. _What?_ Tony’s still by the board, leaning on Peter’s bunk bed. “It leaves stains.”

“ **Stains.** ”

“Yeah, stains. May hates it. And it smells.”

“ **Hm. Okay** ,” Tony claps and a diagram blossoms when he pulls his hands apart because he can just _do that_ now. He spins it around with his index finger. “ **Because it looks like you’re trying to make magnetic webs.** ”

Peter drops the bag and all of its contents spill on the carpet.

“Uh.” _Nice._

“ **That** **_is_ ** **what this** ,” Tony zooms in on the display to the microscopic level, tapping sections so they glow yellow in contrast to the default blue hue that emanates from him, “ **bit right here is for, right?** ”

“Yeah, um, it might be useful. When we were in Germany, Captain America tore my webs off his shield with like zero problems - it’s probably something to do with the adhesive not bonding as well to metal, not that I'm complaining, the modifications you made to the fluid are awesome - which kind of freaks me out since half the things I stick to _are_ metal. So I thought ‘hey, why not make a magnetic web, just in case the other kind doesn’t work’, except I’ve been having problems making it come out of the shooters you gave me since they’re -”

“ **\- they’re made out of vibranium, too, right. FRIDAY’s got -** ”

“- so I made new ones out of UHMWPE, you know, the stuff used for bone replacement, what am I saying of course you know what UHMWPE is, Happy actually helped me out with that part. Anyway, it comes out a little thick? I’m still working on that, but it’s mostly functional.”

“ **One, adorable that you call it ‘Um-Wipe’, two, everything you've got here is great, kid, I mean it. You try changing this ratio here from 17:6 to 11:3?** ” Tony points at the simplest part of the board, the part that reads more like a recipe from one of the cookbooks collecting dust on May's shelf, and tweaks the hologram in his hand to reflect the suggestion. He holds it up for Peter's eyes.

“No, wait, that might actually work,” Peter says, discarding the mess at his feet. He wipes away the dry erase marker with the side of his hand and fills it in with the new numbers. “Thanks, Mister Stark.”

“ **What'd I say about the formalities?** ”

Peter caps the marker and inhales through his nose.

“Knock-knock,” Riri taps the open door with her knuckles. “Delivery for P. Parker?”

“You are a lifesaver,” and he means it.


	2. Chapter 2

“ **Good afternoon, Peter. Shouldn’t you be in class?** ” Karen asks upon start up.

“I got a doctor’s note,” Peter answers. He’s still in his suit and tie, so he looks like an absolute dork covering his neck up in gaudy red. The sky’s still light grey, and the breeze tickles the fine trichobothria on his palms. The adults drink in Mister Stark’s living room, while the kids - just Peter and a boy he’s never met named Harley, since Morgan absconded with Happy for burgers half an hour ago - are left to their devices. Part of him wants to run into the stretch of woods and cry under a tree circa Bella Swan in New Moon (yes, May made him watch all the movies), but May’s inside with Pepper, so he sits on the step with Harley and pretends they’re just two kids hanging out by the lake.

“ **Oh, a new setting has been installed. My internal clock indicates that it’s been several years since I’ve connected to the network. Give me a moment to check for other updates. Would you like to initiate the backup AI while I run diagnostics?** ”

“ _No,_ ” Peter says harshly. It’s too fresh.

“ **Alright.** **Connecting to STARK server…** ”

Peter nibbles on his lower lip. His eyes wobble. _Keep it together, Parker._ He wipes a few stray tears from the corner of his eye. A couple of minutes pass in relative silence, just the sound of babbling water and wildlife to fill the space while he waits.

Harley says something into the phone, soft and melancholy. He’ll be right back. He stands up and walks a couple of feet away, even though Peter can definitely still hear the conversation if he just paid attention. “ _My flight gets in at ten, Mom. I love you too.”_ Peter stops listening.

What will happen when he turns on the AI, Peter wonders. Will he be aware of his state as an AI? How many emotions can he feel, if any? How much does he know? Does he know Morgan, or what happened to the real Mister Stark, or any of the events of the last five years? Should Peter even tell him, or would that be like forcing an amnesiac to become an impression of the person they once were?

What if Peter turns him on and uses him so much that he forgets what the real Mister Stark was like?

Peter almost grabs Harley Keener’s sleeve to beg him for help when Karen speaks up again.

“ **I am so sorry, Peter,** ” she sounds sadder than he’s ever heard her before. “ **It was insensitive of me to suggest that now. I didn’t know.** ”

“It’s alright, Karen.”

Harley ducks his head, ending the call. Half of his mouth ticks up in an awkward smile.

“So, Spider-Man, huh?”

 

\-----

 

“ **Hello, Peter. Did you have a fulfilling day at school?** ”

“I don’t know about fulfilling, but we tied at the decathlon so they have to schedule a special tiebreaker round next week and that hasn't happened in years apparently. I'm pretty excited,” Peter yawns. He stretches out the full length of his twin sized bunk bed. He’s getting taller now, enough that his ankles could dangle over the edge. Like puberty just slapped him hard and fast and all at once; one second, he’s a bite-sized flipping ball of childish hopes, the next he’s got a pimple on his chin and his knees feel too big for his legs.

Peter tosses the cartridge in his hand into the air.

“ **As you should be** ,” Karen waits a beat, just in case Peter has anything else to add. He holsters the little silver rectangle. “ **Would you like to -** ”

“Uh, nah, not this time. Thanks for asking.”

“ **Alright.** ”

“I think I'd miss your voice, you know? I'm so used to it. It'd throw me off to change now. And you're so so helpful. Like, _so_ helpful. Thank you for everything you've done for me Karen, really. I don't know if he'd be able to keep up with you.”

“ **You're welcome, Peter** ,” she's cordial as ever. “ **I'm sure he'd manage. The AI has access to all the same information and machinery as I do.** ”

“I don't want you to think you're not good enough.”

“ **I don't think that at all.** ”

“You're great.”

“ **Thank you, Peter.** ”

“Anyways, I wanna see this stuff in action,” Peter claps and leaps out of his duvet cocoon. “How bout you?”

\-----

“Karen, what’s the probability that a quick shot will land on that guy’s glasses from here?”

“ **Not very high** ,” she responds. Peter winds up his arm and cracks his neck a couple of times. He closes one eye, lines up his outstretched hand, and unleashes three shots in quick succession. The first one goes sailing above his head, but the second and third connect with his cheeks and chin. He throws both hands above his head and whoops. Some more goons file in the room, but it’s worth it.

“Please tell me you got that. I want it to go in my top ten webslinging moments compilation on YouTube.”

“ **I got it.** **Great work** ,” she praises. “ **Tony would be proud of you. Would you like to initiate -** ”

“GPS would be nice. I’m really craving an empanada right now. Can you please send May a text and ask her if she wants anything?”

“ **Of course, Peter.** ”

 

May says she never got a text when Peter barrels through the door; luckily, he has her favorite thing to order memorized - it’s not hard, a bean burrito, nachos, and mini churros with chocolate sauce - and got enough for the both of them.

\-----

 

Karen forgets to tell Peter that the forecast called for heavy rainfall about an hour into patrolling, so almost none of his webbing sticks and he’s forced to walk home with water sloshing around his suit like waterlogged swimshoes. The worst part is when the mask suctions to his face and he has a moment of panic where he can’t breathe in anything but rainwater. He coughs and rolls the elastic fabric over his nose. A man side-eyes him over his paper.

“Forgot my umbrella,” Peter says. The guy nods and returns to reading.

“ **I’m sorry, Peter. I thought I’d told you.** ”

“It’s no biggie, Karen. You didn’t do it on purpose,” he sighs. He’ll have to go back for his backpack tomorrow and dig the extra out from under his bed to hold him over til then. Thank God for May’s foresight. Peter shivers and sneezes. “I hate being cold.”

“ **I understand if you’d like to switch -** ”

“No, no!  It’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up.”

 

\-----

 

“ **New text from Riri**.”

“Dang it. Ignore it, Karen.”

“ **She says: how's STARK?** ”

“Oh my God.”

“ **Message sent.** ”

“Karen!”

“ **Oops**.”

A fist sails inches away from his nose, saved by the last minute tingling at his nape. The second one, however, crunches into his cheekbone. Peter yanks the assailant's arm out of the air with a web, flips over his shoulder, and pins him to the ground in a sticky net.

“Listen, I'm having a lot of fun here, but I have this thing I need to take care of,” Peter says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

“Is this marinara?”

Maybe Peter stuck him in Giovanni's trash. Who knows.

“This is gonna ruin my jacket. Let me go.”

“Nope.”

“Aw, come on!”

“Shoulda thought of that before _spaghetti_ -ing yourself into trouble. Bye!”

“ **Huh, lol.** ”

Peter blinks, “Excuse me?”

“ **New text from Riri: ‘huh, lol’.** **Should I respond?** ”

“Later. We _really_ need to talk -”

“ **Message sent.** ”

“- about your timing. Awesome. Thanks. Great talk.”

“ **You're welcome. Is there anything else I can help you with? Would you like to initiate STARK 3.1.1?** ”

Peter stops in his tracks.

“This is about Mister Stark,” he murmurs. The clogs in his head tumble. “The text, and the rain. Those weren’t accidents. You want me to turn him on, don’t you?”

“ **It might be beneficial to your health if you did.** ”

“You can’t just _force_ me into talking to him, Karen!”

“ **I’m bound by my programming, Peter.** ”

“Yeah, and what programming says you have to lie to me?”

“ **The Jim Hopper protocol.** ”

“Did I change the name, or did Mister Stark pick that?”

“ **I took creative control for the protocols you did not tell me to change. You seem to like that show.** ”

“I do, and I hate you for using him against me like this.”

 

\-----

 

Riri hands him a water bottle and sits on the couch. Tony 3.0 isn’t around, thankfully, otherwise he might lose it before the conversation starts. Her mom looks suspiciously at Peter when he walks through the front door - understandable, he has a bruise on his cheek from the fight, walking in at eight in the evening on a school night.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know if I can turn him on.”

“Okay, and you had to come to my house to tell me that?” Riri blinks. Peter drops his hands in his lap. “Not that you’re not welcome.”

“I can’t say yes when Karen asks. Can you, I don’t know, default him on?”

“What I want to say is sure,” Riri starts, “but if it’s such a big deal to you, you have to be the one to do it. So I ask, again, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. It feels like…” he swallows. His knee bounces erratically. “The second I turn him on, he won’t ever be able to come back.”

“Peter…”

“I know, I know.”

“Is Peter staying for dinner?” Riri’s mom yells from the kitchen. The refrigerator door slams, and he hears the gentle scrape of porcelain plates.

“I don’t think so, Miss Williams, thank you, though!” Peter shouts back.

“Try him out for five minutes tonight. If there’s any technical problems, give me a call.”

“And if there are any me problems?” Peter taps his nails on the back of his phone.

“I’d like to think we’re friends, but I don’t know you well enough to know how to handle you in a crisis,” Riri smiles. She folds her foot under her knee. “I’ll still answer if you call.”

 

Peter lightly taps the hallway wall as he walks, hood pulled so far over his head and chin tucked so low he can only see his feet. He had Karen turn on Time Out just in case he gets overwhelmed and has to sit. Their apartment is only a couple doors down. It’s unlocked, too, he can see May’s shadow underneath the door, hear her moving around the living room. The knob is cool in his fingers.

He barely mutters hi as he steps through the threshold and dashes to his room, hoping May isn’t too upset with him for being out late.

“ **Initializing…** ”

Peter drops onto the unmade bed, knees spread and shoes still laced on his feet. They’re going to dirty the carpet. But he’s too focused to move, to bend over and pull apart the firm knot that holds the bow in place, too scared to tear his eyes from the door, hoping May’ll burst in and catch him before the AI turns on and tell him to get in bed. He didn’t even pause to turn on the lights when he came in; he’s just sat in the dark with only the slit under the door to illuminate the room. The stars glitter outside his bedroom window. Peter can never be that lucky.

“ **Hey, Pete.** ”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i am still working on all my fics!! they're all, accidentally, almost doubling in size with each upcoming chapter. oops.

_Oh my god, bad idea, switch back, switch back,_ Peter wants to say. He's presented with a nearly tangible trigger, something he's been diligently avoiding, and all the grief and the fear and the guilt and anger come rushing in all at once, clogging like wet clumps of rotten fruit in a drain and he can't find the waste disposal switch in his head. He wants to smash a hole in his door; he wants to cry stains into his sleeves until his eyes are red and sore; he wants to say hello; he wants to ask the AI how much it knows, if anything, what it thinks Mister Stark might have felt about the million and ten things going on right now in his life; he wants to apologize.

The air in the room is too heavy for his lungs.

“ **I'd run the welcome message, but you get the drill. Blah blah,** **_not_ ** **your personal assistant, blah blah blah don’t fuck with me, you break it you buy it, so on and so forth.** ”

“Right,” Peter squeaks. _I don't remember breathing being this hard_. Grief constricts his throat in a tightly-braided, coarse rope noose. He squeezes his eyes shut before they can do anything embarrassing like water.

“ **You do still need to accept the terms and conditions, though.** ”

“Really?”

“ **Nah. So how you hanging up?** ” he asks. Casually. Because this is normal. His suit functioning under an AI is normal. Peter blinks, inhales. This is a script he's prepared for.

“Okay,” Peter stares at a patch of ruddy carpet that seems to be a little more worn than the rest. He picks the lint off the inside of his sweatshirt. “I'm okay.”

“ **Wow, three whole words.** ”

In the darkness, Peter can almost see Mister Stark hunched over in his enormous lab, a wrench in one hand and DUM-E hovering over his shoulder with a fire extinguisher, while FRIDAY plays the call over the speakers. Metal alloys, nickel and copper, and the scent of burning rubber plus the casual, steady _tap-tap-scree_ of Mister Stark’s tools: a scene Peter's seen, been a part of, on many autumn afternoons. Pizza boxes pile up on the counter, he'd steal a piece or five, and Tony’d scold him for dripping grease on his hex keys. Peter's thumb nail catches on his hoodie as he rapidly taps his fingers.

“ **You know, this only has to be as awkward as you make it.** ”

“Bold of you to assume I can ever not be awkward.”

Artificial STARK (calling him Mister Stark feels like a lie, ) laughs, and the stars blur in front of Peter's eyes, and giggles blossom from the warmth in his gut.

“ **Now, that's the Peter I know.** ” The ‘and love’ is implied, per usual. “ **Tell me more. Come on, what's going on with Spider-Boy.** ”

The vice around Peter's throat releases and outpour of words comes so fast they stumble over themselves on the way out of his mouth. Rambling is what he does, his natural state of expression, and speaking about non-trauma related things are simple and clean. Easy to tally up and list off.

“I'm so _busy._ I got the webfluid synthesized, the new one you suggested,11:3, but the new shooters didn't cast correctly the first time because nothing in my life can go smoothly ever,” STARK starts to speak in the breath between rants, but Peter cuts him off. ”The second time, I accidentally snapped one in half when I twisted my wrist the wrong way! So I have to take apart the ones I'm using now and try to replace the nozzle and some interior stirrers with UHMWPE pieces instead, which means I'll be grounded for a little while.”

“ **Yeah, give poor May's heart a break for a week. She could use it.** ”

“Ah, I need them though! There's this thing next Saturday that Spider-Man _cannot_ miss.”

“ **Hmmmm, all I see for Saturday is - oh, yup. Spider-Man stays home and finishes ‘** ** _UmWipe’_ ** **nozzle.** ”

“I can literally hear the air quotes.”

“ **Impressive. I don't even have hands to do the gesture.** ”

Peter flinches, but quickly composes himself. He stands and flicks the switch on the wall, passing the glowing red digital Avengers clock May bought him Last - 2017’s - Christmas.

“ **Would you look at that, it's bedtime for Itsy Bitsy.** ”

 

\-----

 

“You came in late last night,” May observes. The glasses on her nose and the thin silver streaks barely visible unless you tilt your head at just the right angle give her an air of maturity that’s still foreign to Peter. A week ago, her hair was chestnut and she only wore her glasses when at the movies or reading. She still drinks the same chai, though.

“I was working on a project with Ned.”

“Oh, really?” she says. “I was just about to tell you that he called while you were out.”

“Uhh…”

“Peter Benjamin Parker, what’s the one thing we promised each other?”

“No more lies,” he sighs.

“No more lies,” she agrees. “Take two. What were you doing last night?”

“It's gonna sound really weird, so let me finish before you say anything…”

 

“And you can just turn him on or off, whenever you want?” May asks. Her legs are bend on the couch cushion, her ear resting on the back. The mug, empty and forgotten, rests on top of the coffee table with a magazine wedged between it and the wood. One hand ruffles the curling tips atop Peter’s shower-dampened head, loose strands falling from her grasp as he nods. The muscles around her lips twitch, but he can’t decipher if they’re aiming for a grimace or a grin. “I don’t know how I feel about this.”

“It’s a little weird, isn’t it?”

“Just a bit, kiddo. I don’t think I could use Alexa if she sounded like Ben.”

“It would be hilarious if Uncle Ben could tell us dad jokes when we got bored,” Peter jokes. “I miss his dumb jokes.”

“Me too, but it’d be a little bit creepy.”

“What if I let you talk to him?”

“Please do _not_ make me talk to Tony. I like Karen just fine.”

“Oh, mood.”

 

\-----

 

Happy hands Peter an unmarked, black cardboard box when he drops him off. When he stares, he holds him in place with a quiet, humble kind of concern that's rare for the man. Both hands stay on the box even after Peter's got it in his grasp.

“Stay safe, okay?” Happy says. He pats the lid once. “Don't fall down a hole.”

“I won't.”

“And stop calling so much.”

“I won't.”

“Good. Get out,” Happy releases it and faces the wheel.

 

Peter lays all the contents of the box on his desk, separated into two piles for each device.

The nozzle shines silver and fits within the palm of Peter's hand. The other pieces: new spring aluminum coils barely the size of his pinky nail, screws, a new cartridge holder, several glass foot-long stirring rods and ball-bearings for fluid-mixing, and a dozen empty test cartridges.

He takes apart the right webshooter in stages first, careful to keep the discarded pieces contained in a shoebox with the original prototype and dead fluid cases. Most of the base is fine, though all vibranium screws have to be removed and replaced. Overall, deconstruction takes about an hour. Peter starts by screwing the new cartridge slot in place. The most annoying part is glancing back and forth between the unfinished device and the untouched one every couple of minutes to make sure the screws are going in the correct hole. Then he realizes it would go faster if he just used one of his suit's AI's to render a 3D model, and assemble it based off that.

So Peter does just that.

“ **Just a hair to left,** ” STARK says, because Peter _forgot_ to switch Karen back on.

“Got it,” Peter concentrates on the smoothness of the forceps in his hand and closes one of his eyes as he angles the nozzle into the socket. He has to be quick and careful: the adhesive is already applied, and it's some of the strongest stuff he can find. _Easy, easy…_

A sliver of shiny excess liquid oozes at the seam. He wipes it away via baby wipe and drops the forceps. The second time is easier now that Peter's got a feel for it.

And boy, do they come out sleek. He sends a picture to Ned, Riri, Happy, and Miss Potts.

The shape of the shooters is relatively unchanged, but the silver pieces contrast nicely on all the black. The new transparent cartridges allow him to see when they're running low. When one's popped in, the white fluid in the left chamber sloshes in shades of grey against the black. He straps one on and pantomimes pulling the trigger.

“ **I hate to say it, but it might've been easier to start from scratch** ,” STARK says.

“I didn't ask for live commentary,” Peter says, blowing raspberries at the disembodied voice. “Even if you're right.”

“ **Wanna take those bad boys on a test run?** ”

“Do you even have to ask?”

 

\-----

 

They start safe, using the regular fluid just in case there’s a crack in the nozzle. Peter rolls out of his window and hits a brick on the other side of the alley. No bubbling or cracking is visible. He grins and grapples to the roof to get a better look at the city. The sky’s still lit, nearing a cement grey behind the clouds. It’s a still little early for patrol.

A speck flits through the maze of buildings in the distance.

“Can you zoom in on fifth and Broadway?”

“ **It’s moving too fast** ,” STARK attempts to follow the figure, but it ducks behind structures quicker than Peter swings. He heads for Kent, intending to cut it off. And when he does...

“Why do I always get the weird bad guys?” Peter half-jokes. Seriously though, most of them teeter on the furry end of the spectrum. This particular brand of baddy has golden eyes and a wild, buggish semi-gloss pieced suit. And flies. He looks a lot like a beetle.

“ **Spices up life a little. It'd be boring if you just rangled purse-snatchers.** ”

The guy pulls an emerald orb from his belt, presses a button on its top, and tosses it over his shoulder as he chuckles lowly. Peter ducks and catches it with a web. He winds it up above his head with a couple of spins, then lobs it square on the back of the guy’s head.

“Hey, I think you dropped this!” Peter yells. The beetle-dude claws at the back of his head a little too late, and the bomb explodes. The force of the blast knocks him from his glider. Peter fires a series of lines into a loose web-net a couple stories above ground-level and lounges around the highest edges, waiting for him to drop. A heavy weight causes the hammock to sag. “Woop, woop.”

“I don’t think we’ve met before. I'm -” Peter stretches his arms and crawls around the edges; the man is nowhere to be seen. “Huh?”

“ **Watch out!** ”

“Woah!” Somehow, the green guy managed to climb out of the sticky trap and call his glider. He throws a punch right at Peter’s face. His spider-sense saves him from a broken nose, but his webs keep sliding off the guy’s armor like sad tendrils of silly string and it’s messing up his momentum. The green guy zips a distance away, presumably to toss another egg-bomb at him. Peter uses the opportunity to swap in the new fluid.

“I know who you are,” the green dude says. “Spider-Man.”

“You’re a fan?” Peter anchors a web on the guy's chest plate and jogs a circle around him. “Sorry, I'm little busy for an autograph right now.”

“How about a little blood?”

“Huh?”

The glider gyrates and yanks Peter into the green guy like a tangle of thread around a spindle, sending all his loose web cartridges flying. He squirms. A sharp _clink_ and sudden pain in his arm, and all the webbing holding him up falls. He drops onto the glider, dangling off the front by his fingertips. With boots barely an inch away, Peter's heart is skipping in his chest.

“I don't think I've introduced myself,” the guy says, holding a small vial up and inspecting it; if that's what he's doing since Peter can't see his eyes. “My associates call me the Goblin.”

“You literally haven't told me anything. You're failing at being a supervillain,” he sasses. Goblin huffs, offended. “Can I have that back?”

“No.”

“I asked nicely…”

Peter swings his legs and backflips onto the Goblin's back, legs wrapped around his neck for the perfect vial-stealing angle. He snatches it out of his hand and stuffs where his cartridges used to be. In a rage, Goblin tosses half a dozen golf ball sized bombs with one hand. They bounce between crowds of onlookers - _why_ do people stop and watch deadly bad guys so close to the action - and underneath cars. In the other, he holds a remote detonator.

“Absolutely not,” Peter says. “This is between you and me.”

He aims for the remote, but when he presses the trigger, nothing but a high, sad hiss comes out. the fluid is too thick; it clogs the nozzles. Fists it is. Unfortunately, the Goblin has a good half foot on Peter.

“How about a trade?” Goblin grunts as he ducks below one of Peter's blows. A surprise hit nails him in the side. “The remote for the vial.”

“Why don’t you rob a blood bank instead? Type O.”

“ **He wants** **_yours_ ** **. Specifically. Be careful.** ”

“Not good enough, Spidey,” Goblin tuts. His thumb hovers over the button. Peter launches himself at him. Then he can't breathe.

There's five fingers crushing his windpipe. He might not have super strength like Peter (maybe he does? The pressure is so intense, it's difficult to gauge what's normal and abnormal), but his hand locks in place. The world blurs into greys and greens and reds and golds, pounding like mallets against royal drums, or against his inflated lungs which are due to pop any second now. Slowly, the glider rises above the rooftops. Peter aims at all the walls they pass.

_Hiss hiss hiss._

The people are so small that they're ants in the space between Peter's feet. A roar overtakes all the noise from the glider and the Goblin's manic laughter. He flails.

Peter’s elbow connects with the Goblin’s forehead, sending them spiralling in the air. He drops Peter.

“ **I'm calling an ambulance, kiddo, don't you dare do anything stupid**.”

 _I have to get that remote. The people down there are still in danger._ Peter crawls on the underside of the glider and wiggles, toppling more control from the Goblin. He shakes the glider like a defective soda machine until what he wants comes flying out, down, toward the cement.

Then Peter lets go.

“ ** _Hey!_ **”

The freefall is terrifying for a few seconds, but he's running on adrenaline. He tucks his appendages in and dives for the remote, extending one hand and snatching it out of the air. There's no time for triumph, however; the ground rapidly approaches him.

Peter tries the webshooters again, but they only hiss. He reaches for the nearest building. His fingers squeak loudly on the windows, glass freshly cleaned and almost too slippery for a good grip. Eventually, though, he reaches the end of the wet spots.

No Goblin in sight, Peter relaxes.

“Definitely not how I expected my day to go,” Peter wheezes. His laugh is dry, weak, his lungs still heaving for air. STARK, on the other hand, isn't as relieved.

“ **That was way out of line. You could've gotten yourself killed!** ”

Something snaps. The familiarity of being scolded on the top of a building, with no body or suit to scream back at, the harshness of STARK's voice as though he actually had the ability to care about Peter's well-being. **Killed**. The difficulty he has with breathing isn't because of the deep purple lines etched into his skin anymore

“You don’t get to say that to me!”

“ **Somebody has to, and I don't see anyone else around. Suck it up and face the consequences.** ”

“Oh, like you?”

“ **What’s that supposed to mean?** ”

“You _died_ saving everyone. You…” Peter's blood runs hot, coloring his cheeks and forcing angry wet droplets to collect like dew on a blade at the corners of his eyes. The air tastes like electrical fire. _I'm so sorry._ He grasps the remote so tight it snaps with a satisfying **_crunch_ ** and plastic sprinkles over his toes. Some of the pieces rain down to the street. “You left Morgan behind. You left Pepper and Happy and Colonel Rhodes behind.” His voice betrays him with a broken, coarse crack. “You left _me_ behind.”

As quickly as the rage overcame him, a new coldness replaces it. Peter’s hands drop to his sides.

“ **Parker, I'm not him. I didn't do any of those things,** ” STARK replies slowly.

“Can you just shut up for an hour or something?”

The remote is destroyed, Goblin’s gone. He doesn't have any information that can track him down. Peter rips off the mask and tucks it on his hip, effectively silencing STARK. Worst of all, wet, angry drops trickle down his cheeks. He squats and dangles his legs over the lip of the window sill.

 

\-----

 

Peter spends an embarrassingly long amount of time at the Avenger’s base, in the training gym, wrestling with a punching bag that he accidentally detached from the ceiling when he hit it too hard. He didn't even bother changing out of his suit when he arrived, too much frustrated every pent up to pause even in the locker room.

He throttles the stiff cushion. Right hook. _I’m sorry._

_Blood on his teeth. Dark, angry veins climb up Tony’s neck like vines sucking the life straight from his skin. Light gasps spread so thin Peter could fit both of his fists in the spaces between them. The reactor flickers._

Peter wails on the bag so hard the bones in his left fist pop like party snappers.

Punching things isn’t his thing. Well, it is as a part of being superhero, and it’s definitely cool to take on an Avenger in hand-to-hand combat for practice. But to express repressed rage? That’s not him. He’s an angry crier like his dad, according to May. Sometimes when Peter’s upset and unsure what to do with himself, he swings to the roof of a building and screams until his throat aches.

_I’m sorry._

Screaming didn’t help.

Peter kicks the bag across the room and attempts to web it to the wall, but the nozzles are clogged, so he holds his hand up and gestures pointlessly at the real life equivalent of the marshmallow from Super Smash Bros Melee.

“Right. It’s broken. Great,” he mutters. Peter tears them from his wrists and whips them at the ground one at a time, shattering the cartridges inside with a satisfying crash.

Sweat drips from his hairline to his chin. He wipes some away with the back of his hand, breathing quick and shallowly. A drop hits his upper lip; it tastes like a tear. Peter scrubs his face, but tears and sweat materialize faster than he can catch, leaving him with damp, disgusting gloves. It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

The clacking of heels alert him to an intruder. The noise stops at Peter’s side a second before a fragile plastic bottle knocks the top of his head.

“Here,” Pepper says. Her knees crack when she kneels beside him. She drapes an arm over his shoulder and just holds him against her side. She doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, or complain when he gets snot on her clothes; she just hold him in place and waits out the worst of the shaking.

“I’m sorry, Miss Potts,” he whispers, voice coarse as sandpaper. His cheeks shine under the fluorescent gym lights. The bulb in his head flickers again, dangerously close to dimming.

“For what?”

“If I got it off Thanos in the first place, none of this would’ve ever happened. It’s my fault.”

“Peter.”

“Why did he do it?” Peter heaves. Pepper shakes her head and hushes him, rubbing his back in soothing, slow circles until the air stops skipping in his lungs. He hides his face against her shirt, vanilla perfume filling his senses.

“Somebody had to.”

“Did he know that would happen?”

“He was prepared to do anything to bring everyone back,” she says. Her voice is measured, just a touch of melancholy hidden behind reassurance. He imagines this is almost the tone she adapts for difficult business meetings, gentle yet firm. Unwavering.

_Are you mad?_

His eyes still sting, but his cheeks are dry.

“I think it’s time to go home, Peter,” she says. “I say this with all the love in the world, you need to take a shower.”

 

\-----

 

When Peter prepares a new batch of web fluid (diluted, 22:7), the gentle beeping of DUM-E is the only guidance he seeks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so,,, ive taken a Long time writing because [this monstrosity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650890) took a lot of my attention. i started writing it by perspective vs chronologically, and hhh ended up dumping like 30k in drafts that i still need to sort through
> 
> this fic in particular is, harder for me, to come back to because of the subject matter, this time of year. but im tryin to get it done asap. i finished a good portion of the last chapter and a skeleton for the rest

When Peter moved in with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben at five years old, he stayed up the entire night staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to come up, counting the blurred glowing windows in the distance. It was slow, boring like winding up a spool of dark thread. He was too young to carry the bags under his eyes. The next night, Ben tiptoed through the door after the orange sunset bled to navy. He squinted against the heavy weights tugging his eyelids to the sand, his lips tuned to a fine wire, as he leaned against the frame.

“Can’t sleep?” Uncle Ben whispered.

Peter shook his head. Ben set a glass of water on the table beside his bed and read him stories from the shelves in the living room until May woke up, both yawning and dozing off despite the daylight. She made pancakes.

Between the thick syrup pools and May wrapping a towel around Peter’s dripping shoulders while he watched the murky bath water spiral down the drain, his bedroom ceiling had transformed into a starry sky. He traced his own personal collection of constellations in the specks and, when the strain became too much, finally let his eyes close.

At thirteen, Peter peeled off the stickers and a good amount of paint by himself. He dragged one of the kitchen chairs into his room and wobbled on its barred back as he collected a pile of chipped, faded tea green stars, salty tracks down his pink cheeks.

 

Leftover adhesive clings in patches. Someday, he's going to scrape it off, especially now that he can climb up and reach it without any trouble. Peter passes over a patch, putrid grey from dust, and leaps out the window.

“Hopefully there's still one around…” he mutters as he swings toward Broadway. The freaking _bombs_ should've been the first thing on his mind, but he was too occupied with-

He can't dwell on that now.

Best case scenario, the police bagged and tagged the explosives, so all Peter’d need to do is discreetly borrow one, see if he can trace the manufacturer, and return it without being caught. Worst case, bystanders walked off with them. Which could mean random explosions anywhere in the city.

God, he hopes it’s the first one.

Before Peter commits to trespassing, he drops onto the sidewalk about where he thinks he saw them fall. Karen or STARK’s scanner might've come in handy, but he'll have to make do. His emotional fuel tanks are on E and the vessels around his tear ducts sting from straining for near twenty four hours.

It's dark, the sky the color of blueberries, the streets are less congested, and the air is pleasantly cool on his skin. Peter turns and almost topples a man in a fancy maroon and gold uniform, standing beside a massive revolving door like a royal guard. Peter murmurs an apology, rubbing his forehead as if the continued motion will push an idea into his head. The guard huffs and straightens his coat.  

“Hey, have you seen any police out here today?” Peter asks, taking a step forward while he holds a hand up.

“No,” the man flinches then takes a step back, nostrils flared when his face contorts in disgust. Peter sniffs the air and instantly understands. He’s still a little ripe. “I’ve been here all evening.”

“Damn,” Peter sighs. He's really not looking forward to stomping all throughout New York tracking down the little orbs before the Goblin can blow them and an unsuspecting block up. “Thanks.”

The doorman shrugs. Peter hops off the sidewalk, and a glint of green beneath the bars of the sewer grate catches his eye.

 

\-----

 

May flicks him in the ear and practically pushes him through the bathroom door when he finally, shamefully, drags his feet back home, refusing to so much as let him take a step off the tile for a change of clothes because the stench is so terrible. Pink rings around her eyes, highlighted with sparkling beads of tears, delicate chasms framing her frown. Her hands cup his cheeks as she inspects him, like a toddler after a tumble on his bike, scrapes fresh and pulsating. Peter swallows when she tilts his chin. Disappointment is the primary emotion in her expression when she releases him and walks away. She leaves a shirt and jeans outside the door for him.

The soap squelches when Peter squirts a dab over May’s silly, tattered yellow loofah and scrubs raw suds into the reddening expanses of skin, removing layers of sewer grime and natural body stench with slow, circular motions. Peachy light breaks through the crack between the shower wall and thin plastic curtain, splitting the steam into clouds. Bubbles swirl down the drain.

He pokes the tiger stripes around his throat and watches the pale fingerprints fade back to a startlingly vivid shade of violet. Peter pulls his shirt over his head, the scent of lavender wafting in the air, and shimmies into his pants.

The apartment is alight with the sunrise, laundry basket and textbooks bathed in warmth. The neighbors stir next door, shouting healthy portions of angry Spanish at one another as they rush to make it to the bus stop. May waits on the couch, sans glasses and the regular coffee cup associated with mornings like this, waiting for him to sit or breach the fragile silence, or both. He joins her.

“I’m worried about you,” May says. Her tight fists rest where her ankles cross, trembling from the tension. She’s steady, despite the vulnerability in her voice. “This is the second time this week you snuck in well passed curfew.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

May, mouth open and ready to counter, nods, expecting gentle fights and admittedly lame excuses, the foundation of their ebb-and-flow relationship surrounding Peter’s role as Spider-Man since the day she found out. But they’re not the same people, and it’s not the same tide. Her lips snap shut and she nods again.

“I think you should see Doctor Wiley again,” she says. “She helped before.”

Peter remembers the shuffling of papers, _scritch scritch_ of pen, and shakes his head. Her wide eyes always held his until a stream of unbridled thoughts poured from his lips for her to stick under glass slides and inspect. The trauma - Ben - almost clawed his secret out the first time around. This time, his identity is integral to the pain; the loss hinges on his presence during the fight, and the loneliness and fear surrounding his death is woven into his presence on another planet. His traumas are Spider-Man’s, not Peter’s. And Peter’s not sure a doctor would be allowed to keep that information to herself, if it didn’t additionally put her at risk.

“No, thanks,” he says quietly.

“I’ve stayed out of the hero trauma and the bullying when you asked me to,” she sighs. “But this is something else. You died, and that all by itself would be enough to give someone PTSD, but with Tony…”

Peter’s breath hitches, so she cuts her sentence short.

“I’ve been reading, you know. What signs to look out for,” May says. “It’s not exactly the same as depression, so I can’t be sure, but I can see the light under your door after midnight, and whenever someone says his name you do that.” She waves at his face.

“Do what?”

“Flinch.”

“Whaaat?” Peter’s voice jumps an octave, and he knows he’s made. “No.”

“Guilt is the Parker brand, doofus,” May shoves his shoulder lightly. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Okay, maybe you’re not wrong,” he says. “But I don’t want to talk around being _me_.”

“So don’t. She’s seeing patients for the dusting already, I bet. Talk about that, and talk about Tony as an employee-slash-mentor-slash-friend and not as Spider-Man.”

“Could we even afford it?” Peter asks, mentally stitching the Peter-portions and the Spidey-portions into their own haphazard quilts of suffering. It won’t be clean. And Wiley might even notice, but it _might_ work.

“We’ll find a way.”

“Once a month?” he offers. Because it's reasonable. And, more likely than not, it might be worth a shot. Instead of blocks and scribbled crayon art, there'll be conversation.

“Every two weeks,” she says firmly. Peter relents. “I’ll give her a call. Now get your ass to class.”

“So I’m not in trouble?”

“School is your punishment,” she smirks and throws his backpack on his lap as he groans, patting his knee twice in sympathy. “And you got one more strike until I take your suit away for a week.”

 

\-----

  


**_To: Riri_**  
meet me at the base after class!

  


\-----

 

Peter gets his phone confiscated second period as soon as the teacher notices him scrolling Twitter instead of color coding the assigned notes. She wouldn’t have, if she could see what profile he logged into (Spider-Man’s official page™). It pings a dozen times before she has to ask him to shut off the direct message notifications.

Cindy lets him copy everything he didn’t finish off her notes in study hall, while she ‘borrows’ black and white thread to sew shredded pieces of a onesie together on one of the unloaded machines in the home ec room. Technically, they’re not allowed inside without a teacher’s express permission, so he stands guard by the door, tapping the flat end of the neon blue marker against his lips and occasionally flipping a page. By the time the cap clicks firmly in place, the spandex is almost person-shaped again, the stitching near-professional quality.

“I didn’t know you could sew,” Peter comments. “What’s that for?”

“Just because,” Cindy hums.

“Oh, cool. It looks awesome.”

“Thanks, Peter,” she pops the wheel and reverses over the last bit of sewing she did, then clips the hanging bits of thread free. Peter gathers up his belongings and puts it away. One hand in his bag, he fingers the fraying tear in the sleeve of his suit, glancing back at the sewing machine while Cindy skips out of the room.

 

\-----

 

After the final school bell rings, Happy ushers Peter into the car and drives him to the Avengers facility. His eyes flit to the backseat every couple of minutes, veiled by his sunglasses, as if he can’t believe the kid is in his car again for the third time that week. He _firmly_ reminds him that he is not, in fact, Peter’s personal Uber driver when Peter waves goodbye.

There were three bombs bubbling under the sludge; all undetonated and dinged up from the long drop. Peter disarms them under the watchful eye of Riri, Pepper flitting in the room once when she hears there are bombs on the premises, and once when FRIDAY informs her that they’re neutralized. She leaves a box of half-mushroom-and-green-pepper pizza perched on the cleanest edge of their workspace.

Riri asks what they are, where they came from, and if she can keep them for further analysis.

“Sure,” Peter says around fat globs of cheese. “But only if you share the results.”

“Deal, but no solo hero missions. Got it?”

They shake on it with their greasy fingers.

 

Unsurprisingly, the Goblins bombs can’t be traced back to a single manufacturer: _seven_ different companies contributed to the construction. Peter contacts each one, all of them fervently denying any culpability. By the third call, he’s drafted a loose script.

“Hi! This is Alchemax Customer Service. How can I help you?” one kind soul says after what feels like hours of inoffensive waiting tunes.

“Hey, I’m investigating a recent crime that occurred in Downtown New York. A couple of hand-held, custom-made bombs were released into a crowd of civilians. I tracked down where some of the parts were made, and you’re on the list of manufacturers. If there’s any information you can share with me, it’d help so much.”

“What part?” she asks. Keys click in the background.

“A T2307 initiator,” he reads off Riri’s report.

“I can try to compile a list of buyers for that specific part,” Elizabeth says. She’s cordial and professional, despite the urgency in his voice. “Which department should I forward it to?”

“Excuse me?”

“For the investigation, _Officer_. What department? Or should I address it directly to you?”

Panicked, Peter hangs up and drops the phone on his desk, face warm. Maybe he could've lied, said to send it to a personal address, but pretending to be a is a crime he didn't prepare for. “Shit.”

The phone rings, and he instantly remembers he didn’t mask his phone number the entire time he’s been calling. Which. Would make the impersonation thing worse, and now he's being literally called out for it. _Shit x2_.

Instead of a string of numbers, however, the caller id displays _Liz 💜 🌺_. Peter inhales slowly, relaxing a hair.

“Uh, hey Liz! I haven’t heard from you in forever. What’s up?”

“I’m not stupid, Peter,” she says flatly. “I had your number memorized for like a year. What’s this about?”

Her question hangs around Peter’s neck like a noose. He wants to ask when she started working at Alchemax because _what_ , but now’s not the time.

“I can’t tell you, but I promise I wasn’t lying about the bombs.”

Liz sighs, long, exasperated, and it sounds like she’s aged ten years instead of five, and preparing to lecture a child.

“Technically, I’m not supposed to share any client information without a warrant,” she says. “But I’ll pass it on if you promise me you’ll keep me in the loop.”

“Okay.”

 

\-----

 

Liz texts him an hour later. At the bottom of the list: Oscorp.

 

\-----

 

Peter has two options.

Option one: swipe a visitor's badge on his way in the building, and hope no one looks too closely at a seventeen year old entering and inevitably hacking a massive, secretitive multibillion dollar biotech company. If he can make it passed the guards, anyway.

Option two: fly on the wall protocol. Which means.

STARK.

He paces outside the large, glass windows and superficially pleasant billboard, ducking his head below a silly souvenir hat he bought on the walk there, hand deep in his pocket. Lil Spidey rests in his palm. He carefully, subtly, blocks his face from security camera view, twisting the strap of his laptop bag between his forefinger and thumb. Hot coals rest on his tongue, coarse and burning as he’s ready to snap any minute.

Peter can’t pilot Lil Spidey by himself remotely, not without tearing apart the suit and hacking it with Ned’s help again, and he doesn’t want Ned finding out about STARK yet. He scratches at the cool Starktech earpiece burning a hole in his ear, silently dreading the voice awaiting his command.

“Okay, just, get him to Osborn’s office, and download the project files,” Peter says, hoping the AI will leave it at that so they can go home without any incident.

“ **On it**.”

Peter parks his butt on a silver, barred bench outside the entrance and removes his hand from his pocket, sweaty palm facing up. Lil Spidey almost looks amber through the lenses of his glasses. It lifts into the air not a minute after being in the open air. It’s a blind voyage inside while Lil Spidey’s camera connects to Peter’s laptop, finally whirring to life with the little bot hanging upside down inside the silver elevator. He spies two of his classmates - Harry and Gwen - alongside a conglomerate of lab coats. Gwen leans a foot away from Harry, dressed in a neat, black button-up shirt rolled up at the elbows.

“Is your father okay with me coming?” she asks, tugging a bit of hair behind her ear. Harry blinks and quickly glances at the ceiling, not entirely rolling his eyes, but exhaling as though this isn’t the first time he’s answered her question.

A moment passes where Peter's certain the bug's been spotted and the alarm about to be pulled, Harry's eyes looking almost directly into his own. His knee bounces and shakes the screen. Harry leans into Gwen, their shoulders a breadth apart.

“You’re an employee; it’s not like he can turn away an extra hand. His assistant is sick today, and the old man can’t take meeting notes for himself,” Harry scoffs as he straightens his cufflinks.

The elevator dings, third floor, and the horde thins, leaving the pair alone in the compartment with Lil Spidey. Peter sighs in relief. The elevator climbs up one more floor before it opens again and the pair spills into the hall. The bot drops onto the back of Harry’s tailored suit jacket, camera flapping clumsily for several moments until STARK veers it back on course.

“Did you hear that?” he whispers. “Norman’s in a meeting.”

Norman Osborn’s office is a minimalistic Ikea wet dream; a lone white shelf with a few books, two locked metal cabinets, a plain desk with a desktop and two leather chairs resting in front of it. The desktop has a clear glass wall, all the circuits illuminated by lime green LEDs.

“ **And our bot is in place** ,” STARK replies, steering Lil Spidey to the CEO’s computer. A USB drive unsheathes from its body, and it settles into place like a fly on ice cream. Peter watches the screen flash folder after folder, copying relevant files while STARK monitors the glass door. His heart thuds in his chest. “ **We'll be outta here in no time.** ”

“Is it almost done?” The flashing monitor is beyond conspicuous. Peter leans back on the bench and awkwardly smiles a tall, well-dressed man that walks by.

“ **Just another minute,** ” STARK assures him. A person walks toward the office door, and Lil Spidey clicks, as if preparing to leap on the ceiling should they enter. They lean against the wall, arms crossed over their chest, seemingly waiting for Norman to return.

Lil Spidey pings just as the person, impatient, turns the knob and steps inside, Norman Osborn following behind with a deep-set frown. It buzzes around their heads, and zips out the door, a pale, white light on its underbelly blinking like a firefly.

 

\-----

 

Riri and Liz both message at around seven; coincidentally, both messages contain the words “Oscorp”, and “liar”, though Liz’s contains a healthy sprinkling of curse words. May passes a plate of spaghetti with chunky red sauce and garlic toast to him.

“You’re popular,” she notes. The television plays in the background, some show May's been binging that'd released while Peter wasn't around that she's been trying fruitlessly to hook him on. Her fork wails against her plate. She peeks when the screen flashes again. “Liz? How is she?”

“She’s good,” Peter says as he scrolls, tongue between his teeth as he twirls a clump of noodles around his fork.

 

 

 

> **_From: Liz_** _💜🌺_ _  
> _ what the fuck is up peter
> 
> **_From: Liz_** _💜🌺_ _  
> _ “i’ll keep you informed” where is the inform at, liar
> 
> **_From: Liz_** _💜🌺_ _  
> _ you told me you were going to oscorp TWO HOURS AGO.
> 
> **_From: Riri_**  
>  hello, liar?? stark told me u were at oscorp??

“This is really good,” Peter mumbles as he munches a mouthful of messy tomato and meat. He balances his food on one thigh while typing. “So good.”

 

 

 

> **_To: Riri_** ** _  
> _** rat...sorry, went well. will fwd after din
> 
> **_To: Liz_** _💜🌺_ _  
> _ i havent looked at anything yet! gimme a minute!

The end credits roll, a loud, obnoxious but infectiously catchy pop song playing over the white text. Netflix begins the countdown for autoplay while Peter slurps down another noodle.

“I got you an appointment for next week,” May says. Her plate is almost clean, and slightly smaller; Peter's is a family serving dish and he's about halfway done.

“Huh?”

“Doctor Wiley?”

“Oh. Right,” Peter swallows. “Thanks.”

 

\-----

 

Lil Spidey links back to the suit, gently docking on magnetic chips, while Peter sorts through the files. He works in moderate quiet, the only noise aside from his keyboard coming from a small radio Peter may or may not have lifted from an officer. The static is soothing.

As detailed as the reports are, he can't find a single blueprint resembling the little bombs. Peter scrolls for hours, even recruits Riri to sort through a couple of folders. Despite the tedium, the soft glow of his laptop screen accompanied by May's sporadic dishwashing bumps and clangs in the other room provide a kind of unfamiliar, unobtrusive peace. He finds basic triggers, fuses, and a haphazardly thrown in patent mixed amongst the files, labeled with a string of numbers,   **080019238165302** , instead of a name. 

“ **I think I owe you an apology** ,” STARK suddenly says over the scratchy laptop speakers. Peter's fingers still.

“For hijacking my laptop?”

“ **For the other day. If it helps you to rail into me, lay it on me.** ”

The worst part is STARK sounds like he _wants_ Peter to deconstruct him piece by piece until nothing but a hollow, dim husk remains. As cathartic as it would be to burn the house down, he can't. Not when he sounds as hurt as Peter feels.

“No, you were right,” he sighs. “You didn't do what Mister Stark did.”

“ **I would have, if I could,** ” the AI’s sincerity stirs anger and confusion anew.

“Why?”

“ **Saving the world was the mission,** ” STARK’s interface opens a window that looks like the mixer from 2000s-era Windows Media Player. “ **At any cost. I'd do it all over again, knowing you, Pep and Morgan are safe.** ”

The golden bars crescendo where his voice breaks.

“Jerk,” Peter mutters. “I can't even be mad at you for being selfish, you jerk.”

“ **Well…** ”

“I mean. You didn’t even have to die, you could’ve waited for Captain Danvers or Thor. Superheroes are allowed to have help, too.”

“ **With the chance to end it right there? Do you** **_know_ ** **me?** ”

“Yeah, Mister The-World-Is-My-Responsibility.” Peter minimizes the audio visualizer - he can't stand to see the skips where STARK starts and aborts his artificially curated thoughts - and stares glassily at another jagged lined diagram.


	5. Chapter 5

_Green Goblin is just a man in a goofy Halloween costume_ , Peter tells himself. Which. So is Peter.

Boo.

How Green Goblin managed to add real, silly pumpkin themed bombs to his silly get-up is still unclear, but the remaining ones Peter hasn't found all detonate at precisely seven a.m., as if on a timer for school. One apartment building, one bank, and one bistro find new holes in their foundations.

Peter hears about it at 7:31, at his desk before class technically begins, with Cindy and MJ quietly discussing their plans for the Europe trip. Ned animatedly does the same with Peter, though his attention is torn between the news push-notification and Ned's excited hand motions. _How could Spider-Man fail so miserably? The late Iron Man would never let a terrorist infiltrate our city_ , the author writes. One man is in the hospital on life-support because a piece of shrapnel flew into his lung. His name is left out for respect.

However, the lone casualty is not: his teenage daughter, who died due to undisclosed injuries as a result of the explosion.

And it's all his fault.

"Peter, are you listening?" Ned asks. His hand lands on Peter's firm shoulder. "You look a little green, dude."

His mouth thins into a fine line and he nods, then flashes the screen in front of Ned's quickly-darkening face. He takes the phone out of his hands and scrolls. 

"Oh shit."

MJ, as if sensing the distress, turns her head toward the pair with a quizzical expression on her face. Peter waves. That doesn't seem to placate her. 

"Leeds, what's wrong with Peter?" she asks. 

"You could ask me. I'm right here," he says.

"You'd lie," MJ responds. "Unless…"

Peter sighs and passes his phone to her like a game of hot potato. The way her face scrunches up while she silently reads the article is unquestionably cute. It almost softens the heavy stone in Peter's gut. She bites her lower lip.

"I thought _Spider-Man_ got the guy," she says.

"No," Peter says. "He didn't even get all the bombs."

"That's not his fault," Flash cuts in. Of course, he's livestreaming off his No1SpiderFan account when he says it. "He didn't set them off."

"So you do have some brain cells," MJ notes. Then, seriously, as an aside to Peter and Ned. "He's right, though."

Ned exhales, _dude,doessheknow,noshutup,_ and nods while pointedly speaking to Peter. "I hope he doesn't blame himself."

Peter hiccups. Thankfully, it translates pretty smoothly as an agreement instead of the aborted protest that it is, and the pair let it go. 

 

\-----

 

He mostly coasts through day with his head dutifully pointed down so no one spies the red rims of his eyes. MJ catches him off guard during lunch when she drops her tray beside Peter's books, followed by Ned and Cindy and, most surprisingly of all, _Riri_ , who doesn't even go to their school as far as Peter's aware. 

"What are you doing here?" It comes out way ruder than Peter intends. He flinches. Riri snorts. 

"I was in the area."

"No, you weren't. The - garage is nowhere near here."

" _For work_ ," she hisses. Peter clams up. "I wanted to check on you, anyway."

Ned's vibrating in his seat from sheer excitement of Iron Heart dropping a tin lunchbox amongst their group of misfits, and it does not go unnoticed. Riri eyes him, then Peter, and groans.

The best part is the confusion on both MJ and Cindy's faces.

"MJ, Cindy, this is Riri. Riri, MJ, Cindy," he waves at the respective person. "Is this gonna be a normal thing?"

"Nah, special circumstances. The boss is _furi_ -ous with you for taking so long on your _green energy_ project. I told him to be _happy_ with what you got, but, well. I'm supposed to pass it along."

"I can't help it if the equations are so cryptic."

"They're not talking about work, are they?" MJ mock-whispers to Cindy. She crosses her arms.

"I don't think so."

"Totally, yes," Peter insists. "It's for the internship. We both work for Stark - Industries." His throat is suddenly stuffed with wet cotton.

"Oh, the internship," MJ hums. He does not like the tone of her voice or the intensity behind her eyes while she stares at him.

"Anyways, I'm a little caught up with my work, so I don't think I can help anymore. Sorry, Peter. Keep me updated, though?"

"Yeah, of course," he sighs. 

"What do you do at SI?" the question bursts from Ned's lips like a dam in a hurricane. "Are you biochem like Peter?"

"Mechanical engineering," she says. "Mostly by contract, but Potts lets me play around in my downtime. Actually, I'm working on this suit - for War Machine, of course -"

Thankfully, the conversation steers into safe waters. MJ doesn't look away for a second.

Goblin is otherwise inactive for the rest of the day. Peter doesn't know if he wishes for the opposite, or if he's relieved he didn't have to sneak out of class. His teacher probably appreciates the lack of absence. 

 

\-----

 

Of course he blames himself. He's like Mister Stark in that way.

Also like Stark, Peter throws himself into hundreds of blueprints. His fingers are numb, his eyes are so dry it feels like they've never once felt the sweet relief of tears, and his head is starting to pound from too much visual stimulation. The black and blue lines on bright white screen have really begun to sear into his eyelids.

"Osborn needs a new organizational system," Peter groans. He gulps down half a liter of lemonade. He's so focused he doesn't notice the sun fall and the moon rise, doesn't hear May call his name, doesn't hear the knob on his door turn and click open; he realizes MJ's inside the moment she throws herself on his bed. He practically falls out of his chair in his haste to hide the bomb and minimize all his tabs, which only makes him look a million times more guilty.

"Next time, tell me when you're gonna pull a Danny Phantom so I can know you're just ghosting me and not blown up or something," she mumbles. In the reflection of his now-dark monitor, her curls sprawl out over his pillows. She stares up at the ceiling. 

"Sorry," Peter removes his hands from the keys and turns. MJ's head tilts, then she leans forward and swipes away a wet spot on his cheek. 

"Do you wanna talk about it?" 

"No."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"What's with the sticky stuff?"

" _What?_ " Peter nearly chokes on his spit.

"On the ceiling," MJ gestures up with her nose and eyes. 

"Oh. Uncle Ben put them up. I haven't had a chance to clean it."

"I could help some time, if you want. I know how to clean every kind of stain, including sharpie and blood. Lemon juice for fabrics, by the way."

"Right, right." 

His phone rings, **_Liz_ ** _💜🌺_ flashing like a red traffic light, and he spots the two text notifications from MJ. She glances at the caller ID and scoots back.

"I should get going. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Thanks, MJ."

His door clicks again.

" **Smooth, Underoos,** " STARK booms over the desktop speakers. Peter faceplants the keyboard.

"Was it my fault?"

" **Well, you didn't do yourself any favors keeping a heart emoji next to-** "

"I mean the bombs."

" **I'm going to sound like a massive hypocrite for a minute, but the things the bad guys do? They're not your responsibility. The only thing that's your fault is your own actions.** "

"What if my actions indirectly lead to someone getting hurt?"

" **It's part of the gig, kid.** "

Peter slams his head again. His cheeks are wet.

"Can you play something off one of his work playlists?"

" **Sure.** "

He ends up back on the patent. It's just a text file filled with legal jargon he doesn't care to google since, from what he can gather, it's just for a specialized performance enhancer for military usage like those pills the Bugle runs ads for. 

It has to be in the folder for a reason, though. His eyes flicker back to the number.

"There's no way," Peter gnaws around the cap of his Sharpie. He checks - the last file in the folder is labeled **357** \- and a bit of hope surges. He plucks out files 80, 19, 238, 165, and 302, overlays them. While the opacity dwindles, Peter reaches for one of the bombs and runs his fingers over the creases in the metal.

On his monitor is a detailed diagram of the orb in his hand. 

The blueprint sets him square in the center of a crossroads, between guessing and knowing who likely did it and facing severe social backlash if he's wrong; between instigating a fight, or waiting for one to come to him. Waiting for someone else to get killed.

Peter's not making that mistake again.

He uncaps the Sharpie.

Half an hour later, Peter scatters line after line of thin, delicate webbing like decorative Halloween string. His heart thunders in his chest. It's risky and reckless, and more than likely there are security cameras pointed directly at him the entire time, but it does the job. He triple checks his mask is in place, even if it makes him feel paranoid. 

 

\----

 

CEO Norman Osborn approaches the glass tower the next morning and finds a massive spider web on the outside of his office window, a single note in the center that reads _Bell Tower, midnight._ He crushes the flimsy styrofoam cup in his hand. 

"Jameson's on line one, sir," his assistant calls. 

"Put him through."


End file.
